Dracula or A Tale of the Night
by etherealfire
Summary: Where Bram Stoker REALLY got the idea for the novel Dracula. Complete! (No waiting for chapters...)
1. The author

Hey everyone! Okay...here goes: I read story where someone tried to combine the book character Abraham Van Helsing with Gabriel Van Helsing; it kinda bugged me :D so here's my version of how the novel Dracula was written...

This was more of a for-myself kind of thing so hopefully it's at least kind-of interesting (I go off on all these weird theory-based stories) but please read and review! Thanx (and disclaimer: obviously I DON'T own Bram Stoker :p)

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_It was a night that chills the blood of men—a night when the fog rises from the ground itself and forms an impenetrable shroud that holds an eerie glow of no source accountable to Nature. A night when the trees are bathed in the gauze of moonlight and the woods are as silent as an ancient graveyard hidden deep within. Edward was never a man to fear, but his visage grew steadily grimmer as his carriage rolled slowly along the road, lanterns bobbing in the bleakness. Hold—was that a face he saw, peering from the unearthly landscape of primeval giants? He could at times see the moon itself, shimmering through a ghostly veil of clouds above the Transylvanian forest. _

_The carriage shuddered to a stop, and Edward felt a jolt of uneasiness. "Driver? What is the matter?" he called. There was no answer. Edward heard something hit the ground beside the carriage, then two blood-red eyes peered in through the window, and for the first time in his life Edward screamed…_

The man set down the quill and sighed explosively, running his fingers through unruly light-brown hair. He yanked his ponytail and set his spectacles down in annoyance. _Why_ couldn't he get the bloody thing right? Cursing under his breath, he crumpled up the parchment, only to smooth it out again almost immediately—one did not waste—and pushed the quill aside.

Something flickered, and he jerked toward it. It was only the kerosene lamp, growing dimmer by the second. "Confound it all," he murmured, sighing more gently this time and giving it a rueful half-smile. It was his last oil; he'd have to go purchase some more tomorrow. He didn't know why he always forgot to refill the blasted thing; he suspected that his mother had been right when she said that all authors were impractical, absent-minded daydreamers.

There was a loud clang from upstairs, followed by some of the worst possible sounds to emanate from a piano in the history of man, in his humble opinion. He turned down the lamp and opened the curtains in order to work by moonlight, giving the ceiling a withering glare.

From outside his window the sounds of Victorian London filled the cool night air. A full moon was rising above the stacked and swirled clouds. It was so beautiful that it took his breath away. He found himself drawn toward the intricate swirls of cloud that shimmered in its blue-white luminescence, tracing them with his eyes, trying to capture the brilliant-yet-subtle hint of glimmering gold that lined its lower edge as it crested the uppermost cloud like a bird ready to take flight into the vast abyss of the sky and all its sparkling stars…

A pounding at the door shattered his reverie. "Enter!" he called out, still gazing out the window.

The door creaked open on rusted hinges, and the broad face of the tall, angular landlord's wife was framed in a rectangle of yellow light. The young student turned toward her, agitation evident on his features. He was dressed rather shabbily, with worn spots on his immaculately-clean waistcoat, and his hair as untidy as usual.

Mary Westingham sighed. "Mr. Stoker, you instructed me to inform you when it was six o'clock."

"Yes?"

"It is now six o'clock."

"Thank you." She nodded, giving him a weary look, and shut the door, plunging him into darkness once again. _Six o'clock. What was at six o'clo—_

He jumped up and nearly tripped over his stack of papers on the floor as he raced to his closet. He lit one of his emergency candles—the moonlight wouldn't do—and hurriedly began combing his hair, attempting to change his jacket and shoes at the same time. Darn all if he was going to be late to one of the most important conventions of his young—but blossoming, he told himself firmly—career.

A moment of terror as he found himself trapped inside his jacket, inside out and backwards, then he could see again and sat down on the bed with an audible _whump_. His shoe was halfway on when he stopped.

_What if they don't want me there? They talk about me as if I'm some sort of novelty; a sensationalist, as it were. At least horror is becoming a recognized genre now, but how recognized? Mary Shelley of all people is one of the leading authors: a woman! I could never give the world something as spectacular as her work…_

_Abraham,_ he heard another, nagging voice, say, _Give up this imbecilic work. You have a career and a family. You work for the Lyceum Theatre. What more could you possibly want?_

"But there is so much more, Florence. I can feel it, my great work, every time I look at the moon." _Call me Bram,_ he had thought, annoyed, even as he had had taken her slim, cream-colored hand in his. "Don't you see, my darling?" He had gestured wildly at the full moon, so similar to the sight he was gazing at now. "It is there, I know it is. I just cannot seem to begin the task…"

And Florence Balcombe-Stoker, his wife and one-time love, had looked up at him with hollow, uncomprehending eyes.

Now Bram sat looking into the darkness of his tiny rented London apartment. Above him, the infernal—and abominable—piano playing began again. He sighed and gave one last glance at the wind-ruffled papers on his desk as he put on his hat and left.

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Please read and review! Thanks much! 


	2. Visitors in the night

I really do hope you guys like this fic...I wrote the whole thing in about an hour...so yeah.

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Bram collapsed on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. The convention had been an utter sham. He had gotten no new ideas, nothing that could be used for his ever-elusive next work. He did not even know what it was to be about, but it would follow the pattern of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein…

Despondently, he watched as the curtains fluttered lightly in the night breeze. Fluttering. That was an interesting effect. He made mental note of the speed of the fluttering, the feel of the breeze…

He was dozing off when there was a rumble of voices and a light tap on his door. "Herr Stoker?" came a muffled voice.

Bram sighed in irritation. "What is it, Hilde?"

"Visitors to see you."

Bram groaned under his breath. "I'll be there in a minute!"

"Very good, sir." The girl said something soft—apparently not to him—and giggled. Bram staggered out of bed and pulled on his waistcoat, which he had discarded on the floor, along with his shoes and stockings. He made himself presentable and opened the door.

What greeted him was a rather odd sight, to say the least. The only normal part about it was Hilde, the serving-maid, who was no older than 18. Her cheeks were flushed as she introduced the rather haggard author to "Mr. Valerious and Friar Carl."

Bram gripped the doorway unsteadily. He realized that his mouth was slack and his glasses dirty, but for Heaven's sake, it was nearly two in the morning. Valerious, was it? That name was very familiar…He, Valerious that is, was tall and very handsome—judging by the scandalous looks Hilde was giving him, which he successfully ignored—with deep-chestnut, shoulder-length, softly wavy hair and deep-brown eyes that held a twinkle in them. Friar Carl was shorter, with a somewhat timid face, a ridiculous monk's haircut—without the bald spot—and large ears that stuck out to the sides. His eyes, though, belied his appearance; they showed a burning intelligence and curiosity. Carl wore a friar's habit,

Bram's own curiosity was aroused, and his brain, groggy though it was, began to wake up a little. "Pardon the hour," the one called Valerious said, "but we leave tomorrow morning and must speak with you."

"Yes, yes, come in, come in," Bram said, suddenly startled at his lack of hospitality. "It's quite all right."

Hilde went away down the corridor, but not before saying, "Now, Herr Valerious, do tell me if you require anything at all!" She smiled at him a split second longer than necessary. Valerious merely nodded—a look of…was it sadness?...flashed across his face but was gone instantly—and he and Carl followed Bram into the apartment.

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REVIEW PLEASE! 


	3. The last remaining records

Wow this is the first fic (other than the feature commentary one) that I've uploaded all at once! Crazy! I guess I'm just being lazy (haha rhyme) tonight.

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Bram had purchased some more kerosene on the way home from the convention, and he lit the lamp, gesturing to two chairs as he did so. "Now, gentlemen, how may I help you?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder to where they sat, cloaked in shadow.

Valerious leaned forward, his eyes glimmering in the candlelight. "Has the servant-girl gone?" he asked very softly.

Bram raised an eyebrow, but, not sensing danger from either of them—though Valerious did have a definite presence of one who could be very dangerous if provoked—strode quickly to the door and opened it. The corridor was empty. He closed the door again and nodded. "She has gone."

"Then please sit. We have little time."

Bram did as he was asked, far less groggy by this time.

Valerious leaned forward once again. "First, Mr. Stoker—"

"Bram, please."

"—Bram, my name is not Valerious. It is Van Helsing."

Van Helsing! The famed murderer, who disappeared after every killing, and who was wanted in nearly every city on Earth!

Bram stared at him, mouth dry. "The…THE Van Helsing?"

"Yes. Do not be alarmed. I am not a murderer as people say. I—" He paused, and an intense pain flickered across his face, but he quickly regained composure and looked Bram straight in the eye. "I have recently returned from Transylvania. You are the fourth cousin of Voris Valerious, are you not?"

"You mean the Gypsy King? Yes, he is my mother's third cousin…how do you know this?" Bram was more intrigued than afraid. THE Van Helsing! In his apartment! Bram could feel the writer inside struggling to keep from asking thousands of questions.

"Never mind that. You know that he died over a year ago, then?"

"No, I only was aware that I was related to a Gypsy King by the name of Valerious, which is why I was so startled when you introduced yourself—the first time, I mean," he said hurriedly, not missing the look of wry amusement on Van Helsing's face.

"His children are also…dead." Van Helsing's look of amusement died, and again the pain flickered like heat lightning—the man's eyes looked haunted by some horrible tragedy. This time, it was harder for him to compose himself. The friar, Carl, put a hand on Van Helsing's shoulder.

Bram frowned. "Why are you telling me this?" Possibly he had inherited a fortune, he thought, but he was hardly in the direct line or even remotely close to it.

"You are an author?"

"Yes."

"Then I trust you will take great care of these." Van Helsing thrust a packet into his hand. "These are the last remaining records of the Valerious clan. See that they are not lost to history."

"But…I don't understand…"

"You are the closest thing to a historian in the extended family of…Anna Valerious. As such, it only makes sense that you be the one to receive the family records before they are lost to time. And believe me, Bram, these are worth preserving." He stood to leave. "Carl and I must go now; the Vatican awaits us. Thank you for your time, Mr. Stoker." He put on a black, wide-brimmed hat and tilted it forward in a nod.

"You're welc—wait, did you say the _Vatican_? But you are a wanted man!" Bram's writer's instinct was nagging at him. "What…why…"

Van Helsing smiled, and Bram suddenly realized just how ageless his eyes were, much older than his companion's. "Perhaps those papers will explain," he said simply, and the two men left.

For nearly ten minutes after the odd visitors—a murderer and a friar, of all things!—had left, Bram Stoker sat on his bed, staring at the folder in front of him. He didn't know what to make of it. The "last remaining records of the Valerious clan"? What in the world was that? Finally, with trembling fingers—his writer's sense was now going off full-force—he carefully peeled open the first page and began to scan it.

Fifteen minutes later, he was so engrossed in the reading that he did not even notice the little footsteps upstairs sneaking toward the piano.

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REVIEW! (please?) 


	4. The Valerious papers

Yes, these do have to do with my other story, Murdered 1462...including the letter that Valerious wrote to the Vatican..._

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_

_March 3, 1418_

_Born to Count Vladislaus Valerious (the Elder) and Countess Valerious, a son, Valerious Valerious (the Younger)._

_December 15, 1422_

_Born to Vladislaus Valerious the Elder and Anna Daughter of the Gypsies, a son, Vladislaus Valerious. _

_October 26, 1429_

_Born to Vladislaus Valerious the Elder and Anna Daughter of the Gypsies, a daughter, Anna (Valeria). _

_-_

_February 18, 1462_

_Transylvania_

_Officials of the Vatican:_

_I have come upon a matter of moste urgent necessity for examination. My Lorde Vladislaus Valerious, mine younger brother and the son of Count Valerious the Elder of Transylvania, hast committed a most dreadful acte that merits immediate attention. He hast given himself over to the Great Evil thate is the Devile and claims to be His true son. I have grave fear for mine father and myself as well as the rest of the worlde. Please sende help as soone as it is possible. I will looke for an arrival in the days to come._

_Blessings be upone,_

_(Count) Valerious Valerious the Younger_

_-_

_Dear Journal,_

_Father has told me the strangest story. He told me that we, the proud Valerious family, are defenders against an ancient evil, that of Dracula. I have of course heard of this thing, but I have never had an explanation before. I asked him what he was talking about._

_Dracula lives somewhere in Transylvania in a giant stone-and-ice castle fortress with his three brides. Father says that they are very beautiful, but they are more deadly than the wolves that roam the forests at night. Dracula and his brides are vampires. They kill people and drink their blood to live._

_Dracula was killed 400 years ago but he made a pact with the Devil and still roams the land, killing innocent people. His castle cannot be found, and we do not know a way to kill him ("we" means our family). Here are some of the methods we have tried:_

_Clubbing, stabbing, crucifix, stake through the heart, shooting (arrows and guns), drowning, poisoning, sunlight, and even putting garlic around his neck while he was distracted. Nothing has worked (Father's descriptions of some of the fights were fantastic!) so far._

_I do not know if I believe Father, but I do not think that he was telling a story as he usually does in the evenings._

_Voris Valerious_

_Dear Journal,_

_Mother told me that the story of Dracula is true, and that it is her and Father's life goal to vanquish Dracula, otherwise our family will never enter Heaven. I hope that, if that is true, Mother and Father kill Dracula soon. I know they will. They have the most wonderful father and mother in the world._

_Voris Valerious_

_-_

_(note in Carl's hand)_

_Dracula—son of Valerious the Elder, murdered March 1462, "Left Hand of God" (metaphor? Look up in library…)._

_Crucifixes do not work on him. Perhaps wooden stakes?_

_Odd—Anna's ancestor also named Valerious, but Valerious the Younger. Letter to Vatican is from him? Incorrect date? It is dated BEFORE Dracula was murdered…very odd…_

_-_

_(note in Carl's hand)_

_Frankenstein monster used as Dracula's tool for life to his children? He wants to populate the Earth with his kind…how if not by electricity?_

_Velkan (werewolf blood didn't work)_

_Voris—not sufficient energy output_

_1258_

_Not sufficient voltage_

_37/144energy dynamo—coefficient—28? NO_

_(random numbers/calculations scribbled down)_

_OH MY GOD…_

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Okay you know the drill...R and R! 


	5. A masterpiece begun

Anyway...

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There were dozens of papers, including a family tree of the Valerious clan—which went back to the infamous Vlad the Impaler, Vlad Tepes. Together, they created the most fantastic, unbelievable story that Bram Stoker could have ever imagined.

Here was his great work.

He did not understand all the parts of it, and least of all who Van Helsing was—though he could not forget the eternity that he had witnessed for a fraction of a second in the other's eyes—but the character of Dracula intrigued him. A vampire? A real vampire? The "walking dead"? Bram was ecstatic. He would prove the critics wrong; he would create a masterpiece…

Was this story real? Bram's overexcited brain ground to a halt. All his common sense said no, but his writer's intuition said possibly, even probably…and the look in Van Helsing's eyes had been real enough.

He grabbed a blank sheet of paper and started scribbling. What should he name his main characters? He already had a perfect plot; this collection of papers had filled in the gaps in the story that he had been trying to write for years, of a great evil that came to London and was stopped by a small band of heroic men…Bram had been meaning to call the vampire-like creature Count Wampyr, but had decided that the name didn't fit...Now he had his name.

Count Dracula.

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:D 


	6. Should the world have known?

And my take on why the novel turned out differently than Van Helsing (the movie)..._

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_

_Ten years later_

"Van Helsing! Van Helsing!"

The monster hunter looked up as a slightly pudgy monk came flying toward him, waving something frantically in his hand.

"What is it, Carl?" Van Helsing laughed at the look on the friar-turned-monk-at-last's face. Carl had remained short, but over ten years he had grown rounder. Van Helsing looked the same as he always had; it was one of the facts of his existence that, as an immortal, he would never age. And one day, he would have to leave his best friend behind. He shook the thought away. Better to live in the moment. For him, it was essential.

Carl stopped where Van Helsing sat polishing his weapons, panting. "I ran all the way from the lab," he explained between breaths. "Look at this!" He thrust something into Van Helsing's hands.

Van Helsing looked down and gave a startled jerk as he found himself holding a book, entitled: Dracula, or A Tale of the Night _by Bram Stoker_.

He opened it and began reading. After the first few chapters, during which Carl hovered over his shoulder, drinking in every word, Van Helsing began to flip through the pages. "He has certainly portrayed Dracula differently than he was," he remarked, almost smiling. The papers the pair had given Stoker had, after all, not contained any physical/personality descriptions of the dark, handsome, seductive—and fearless—Son of the Devil.

He stopped flipping through the pages and grinned. "Look, Carl." Carl squinted at the page and burst out laughing. "He just had to include you, didn't he?" Carl said jestingly. Written on the page was a description of one of the main characters ("…he had an iron nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, and indomitable resolution, self-command and toleration."), who was named Professor Abraham Van Helsing.

"A little hero-worship?" Carl added, grinning at his friend. Van Helsing raised an eyebrow, and the two started laughing, then quickly sobered as they realized the importance of this novel.

"Odd that Stoker did not tell the story as it truly was," remarked Carl.

"Perhaps he knew that society would not accept such a fantastical story," Van Helsing replied. "Or…perhaps he did not understand it. I have, evidently, been a hunter of evil since the dawn of man, and I did not, not completely anyway."

"Perhaps it is better that society never know of the true Dracula," the monk said.

Van Helsing nodded slowly as the other reached out and closed the book.

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That's it! Please review! I really appreciate all your comments. :D 


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